Real sisterhood doesn’t depend on closeness or constant contact. It survives distance, silence, and years of becoming different people. What holds it together is care that doesn’t demand anything back, only presence when it matters. If it’s nurtured, it doesn’t just last through time ,it deepens with it. And that’s what makes it rare: a relationship that can quietly stay alive through an entire lifetime, without needing to be constantly proven, only gently maintained.
There is a kind of memory that doesn’t belong to words. It lives instead in sensation, in the weight of small, warm hands, in the softness of chubby fingers wrapping around nothing in particular, just because the world is new and worth touching.
Childhood is not a chapter so much as a light. It falls unevenly, golden and unfiltered, on everything equally: grass, flowers, your own curious breath. There is an unrepeatable honesty in those early years, the way attention is absolute, untrained, alive. A yellow flower is not “a flower.” It is an entire event. A hand is not small or big. It is enough.
We grow older and learn to name things, to sort them, to rush past them. But sometimes, for a second, something opens again - a quiet reminder of that earlier state. The world still holds the same softness. We just forget how to hold it back.
I have always been drawn to photographs that don't explain themselves. The ones that leave a question hanging in the air. The ones that feel more like memories than documents. More like dreams than reality. Maybe that's why I keep returning to black and white, to fine art, to strange and sometimes uncomfortable images that seem to exist somewhere between beauty and melancholy.
Perfection has never interested me as much as truth. Not the obvious kind. The quieter kind. The kind that hides beneath polished smiles and carefully constructed versions of ourselves. The kind that appears only for a moment before slipping away again.
A conceptual photograph can hold something a literal image often cannot. A feeling. A fear. A longing. A piece of a story that has no beginning and no ending. It asks less for attention and more for presence. It invites you to bring your own memories, your own ghosts, your own unanswered questions.
The Double Glass Optic has this gorgeous classic softness to it. Portraits shot with it feel gentle and intimate, almost like memories instead of digital photos. Skin tones look smoother, highlights bloom softly, and the transition into blur feels incredibly natural. What I love most is how easy it is to shape the mood just by adjusting the aperture. More glow, more softness, or sharper details whenever you want them. It gives portraits that emotional depth modern lenses sometimes miss.
Some days it’s all just tape, kraft paper, labels everywhere, running around like “wait… did I pack that already or am I losing it...” And yeah… sometimes the whole packing process feels kinda exhausting, not gonna lie. Boxes here, envelopes there, coffee getting cold for the third time in a row…
But personally, black-and-white photography feels almost primal to me. Like returning to the origin of something. Especially when it’s shot on film. There’s this dense, soft, almost velvety feeling to it. It feels deeply alive. Deeply warm. No matter what you’re photographing.
And there’s something about removing color entirely that creates this timeless kind of elegance. Black and white has discipline to it. Precision. It reminds me of that little black dress by Coco Chanel - minimal, iconic, somehow right for absolutely everything.
But more importantly, black and white adapts itself to emotion. It doesn’t overpower the mood you’re trying to show. It becomes part of it.
And honestly, I don’t think black-and-white photography belongs only to masculine aesthetics the way some people assume. It works beautifully in everyday life, and it suits so many women in such an effortless, cinematic way.
I really, really love black-and-white photography for that.
But eventually there comes a moment when you just can’t stay there anymore. You have to break out of it. And honestly, sometimes that release comes through emotions, through weird moments, through tears, through things that don’t even make sense at first. It can feel messy. Strange. Vulnerable.
But the second you finally let something go, it almost feels like you’re floating.
Not literally, obviously. Unless you’re a skydiver or one of those people flying around in the sky doing insane adrenaline stuff. But emotionally? Spiritually? You absolutely can feel weightless. Even being in water can give you that feeling. Like your whole body suddenly remembers what freedom feels like.
And the truth is, we really do need to crawl out of those shells. Because no matter how “fine” your life may look from the outside, living shut down for years eventually catches up with you. People end up carrying regret, heaviness, emotional exhaustion, this quiet sadness they can’t even explain.
That’s honestly one of the reasons I do what I do. When people come to work with me, I want us to create a space where all of that can finally come out. Where they can breathe again. And when it happens… it’s beautiful.
So yeah… besides writing and all my other creative chaos, I make these little handmade things too. Tiny clay talismans, linen bags, weird sun symbols, strange little creatures that honestly feel like they came out of a dream somewhere in the desert. I love working with my hands. Like really love it.
There’s something grounding about clay and fabric and paint. No screens. No noise. Just texture, earth, intuition, silence, music in the background, maybe tea getting cold somewhere nearby.
I honestly think nature heals people in ways we barely even notice anymore. Not through something dramatic, but through small everyday moments. Sunlight on the kitchen floor in the morning. Wind moving through trees. The smell of rain coming through an open window. Sitting quietly next to the ocean with someone you love and realizing nobody needs to say anything for a while. I think the human nervous system was always meant to live closer to those things.
Sometimes I feel like nature gives the same kind of comfort as being рядом with the right person. That deep exhale feeling. That sense of safety. Like your body finally remembers it doesn’t need to rush or defend itself every second. A loving relationship can do that, but so can a forest, warm evening light, mountains in silence, or even just bare feet touching cold grass after a long day.
I think happiness is actually much simpler than we make it. Good food, soft light, fresh air, someone you trust, a quiet home, birds outside the window, feeling connected to the earth instead of constantly distracted from it. There’s so much beauty in ordinary life when you slow down enough to really see it. And honestly, I think that kind of beauty keeps people alive emotionally more than anything else.
Soft skin. Quiet mornings. Tiny rituals. I swear these two products just make me slow down for a second and actually take care of myself instead of rushing through everything. The La Mer oil feels so calming and grounding on my skin. Like… not heavy, not greasy, just really nourishing in this soft, expensive way. And the smell? It literally feels like peace. And the La Prairie cream is one of those products where your skin just looks rested. Even when you’re not. It gives that super hydrated, healthy, “I drink water and sleep 8 hours” look… even if your life is chaos. I’m honestly not into complicated skincare anymore. I just want products that feel good, look beautiful, and make my skin happy. These two do exactly that.
Film always ends up mattering, but especially when you travel. Digital catches what happened. Film keeps what it felt like. The light gets softer, the moments feel slower, and somehow even the imperfect shots end up carrying the most life in them. I’ve gotten photos back months later and suddenly remembered the exact heat in the air, the noise outside the window, the feeling of being somewhere unfamiliar and completely alive. That’s the thing about film. It doesn’t just document a place. It holds onto the atmosphere.
Tiny fingers wrapped around soft blankets, curious little eyes studying every blade of grass, and warm mama kisses at sunset. These quiet little moments feel almost unreal, filled with golden light, softness, and so much love. The sweetest memories are never perfect or posed. They live in tiny expressions, messy baby curls, sleepy cuddles, and the gentle warmth of being held close at the end of the day 🤍
There’s something almost disarming about the age of two. It’s not the loud milestones people celebrate or the polished moments we tend to photograph, it’s the in-between. The unsteady steps. The fierce hugs. The way a child clings to a soft toy like it holds the entire weight of their tiny, expanding world.
At this age, children exist in a space that feels both fragile and wildly self-assured. They wobble, they insist, they laugh without restraint and then, just as suddenly, they retreat into something deeply tender. Watching them from a small distance, especially as a parent, is like witnessing a language you once knew but can no longer fully speak.
